The Understory by Elizabeth Leiknes Page B

flaws rather than creating beauty.
    So while Story scooted out of the Payne house and back to her own, Hans finished fixing the Paynes’ front door and, in his mind, fixing Claire Payne. While talking—no, listening—to her to her on the phone, she’d sounded as off-kilter as that door of hers that would not stay latched. Hans did not know the reason for the frustration in her voice, but as he re-hung the door, pounding the doorframe with his carpenter’s hammer and shaving off little pieces of the door with his planer, he did what he could to restore balance to door and owner alike.
    Pound . A little stronger.
    Pound . Pound . A little more solid.
    Pound . Pound . Pound . . . balanced. And ready to withstand any shitty day. Lots of shitty days, perhaps, if he did his job.
    Finally, when the planked, Hacienda-style door closed with ease and stayed closed, Hans let his hands glide over the recycled Douglas-fir, touching it with tenderness, as one would caress a delicate flower, or a lost love. After repairing Claire’s door, Hans made a quick change of clothes, and left for his next appointment: not another handyman job this time, but an appointment for his other job.
    When he wasn’t fixing broken people’s broken things, Hans made small rabbits and credit cards disappear. He locked rings together. He drew cards out of nowhere. A leftover childhood fascination, magic to him meant that some small corners of the world might still be enchanted.
    Though quieter than other magicians, who liked loud Presto-Chango declarations and gaudy show voices, Hans won his crowds over without speaking. Ever. His mime-style became so popular in the children’s party circuit, he had to give himself a name. He painted Sleight of Hans in a mysterious, whimsical font on a removable decal, and when he traveled to a magic gig, he used the decal to cover up his truck’s permanent sign, Fix-It-And-Forget-It Man .
    Today’s magic gig was twelve-year-old Sarah Hartsinger’s birthday party, which Hans thought would be like the others—Mylar balloons, bad sheet cakes, and a few beautiful but predictable moments of wonderment when he made things disappear. But when he showed up at the Hartsinger residence, he realized this was not to be.
    The solid-oak front door opened and a petite, pony-tailed girl wearing a baby-blue hoodie greeted Hans. “Hey, hey, hey,” she stammered, looking at Hans’s retro tuxedo and his big, gun-metal gray tool box which held his magic tricks. In a frenzied flutter out of nowhere, her eyebrows danced up and down as she cracked her fingers and let out bullet-like utterings, seemingly uncontrollable, that sounded more like bodily functions than words. KEECH . HOOL . URP . And then she yelled, “Hey. Hey. Magician fuck-fuck-fucker!” which ended in an odd crescendo.
    Strangely charmed, Hans gently shook her hand and wondered what the hell was wrong with her. His hands, acting as surveyors, throbbed in response.
    The girl’s face softened, and she gave him a warm, confident smile. “I’m Sarah. It’s my party,” she said, and then, laughing, sang, “ And I’ll cry if I want to ” in a beautiful, angelic voice. After an embarrassed sigh, she added, “My mom likes that stupid song.”
    Hans smiled, still standing in the doorway, waiting to come in.
    “Oh, sorry,” she said sweetly, opening the door more and leading him into the foyer. “You really don’t talk much, huh?” But then without warning, her eyebrows danced again, her fingers cracked, and the bullet-words returned. “Asshole. Bitch. Tit-tit-titties!”
    A woman raced over to where Hans and Sarah stood, and after wiping her hands on a mini-apron tied to her waist, extended her hand. “Oh, geez,” she grimaced. “I should’ve warned you. Sarah suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome. She can’t help what she says,” she said in a kind, motherly voice. “Words that she wishes she never knew flow out of her mouth like a fountain of filth!” She